King of Sloth (Kings of Sin #4) by Ana Huang

I stepped away from her and toward the globe. I spun it idly, watching the Americas roll by, followed by Europe and Africa, then Asia, then Australia.

I stopped it when South America came into view again and plucked the pin out of Colombia. It pricked my thumb, but I hardly felt it.

“Have you ever wished someone would die?” I asked softly. “I don’t mean figuratively or in a moment of anger. I mean, have you ever lain awake at night, dreaming of how life would be better if a specific person didn’t exist?”

It was the closest I’d ever come to shining a light on my darkest thoughts, and the somber ticks and tocks that followed sounded like hammers striking at my walls.

The English grandfather clock in the corner was one of my father’s prized possessions. Rosewood case carved with an intricate inlay design, face crafted of chased silver, hallmarked numerals by a famous London silversmith. He’d paid over one hundred thousand dollars for it at an auction, and its imposing sentry felt like an avatar for his reproach.

A breeze brushed my skin as Sloane reached for the pin. “Yes.” Her fingers grazed my palm for a single, lingering second before she pushed the pin back into the globe. “It doesn’t make us bad people, nor is it an excuse. We can’t always control our thoughts, but we can control what we do about them.”

Her gaze coasted from the antique surface of the globe to my eyes.

“The question then,” she said, “is what are you going to do next?”





CHAPTER 13





Sloane





Gloom shrouded the Castillo estate for the next twenty-four hours as the patriarch hovered on the precipice between life and death. The staff worked more slowly, the family talked more quietly, and the sunshine streaming through the windows dulled the second they hit the mansion’s dread-laced air.

I stayed out of everyone’s way except for Xavier’s.

I didn’t deal well with broody billionaires, nor was I particularly good at comforting people. However, I couldn’t bring myself to let him wallow alone, which was how I ended up searching the mansion for him with reinforcements in hand.

I had some free time—I’d finished the press statement last night, and no major outlets had picked up Perry’s piece about my misadventures in Spain. I wasn’t a celebrity, but the lack of response was suspicious. Nevertheless, I took it as a gift from the universe; I had enough real problems without creating hypothetical ones.

I finally found Xavier camped out in the den with an ESPN documentary about the world’s top athletes. One of his arms draped across the back of the couch while the other held a bottle of the Castillo Group’s signature drink.

Tousled hair, cashmere sweats, three-hundred-dollar T-shirt. That was the Xavier I knew and didn’t quite love.

Something akin to relief stirred in my chest. At least he wasn’t acting totally out of character.

“Sorry, Luna, you’ll have to find another TV for your rom-coms,” Xavier said without looking away from the screen. “This one is occupied.”

“I know. I didn’t come to watch a movie.” I sat beside him and unloaded my armful of goods on the coffee table. “I came to see you.”

His gaze flicked to me with apparent surprise before it cooled again. “Why?”

“You need to eat.” I eyed the empty beer bottles scattered around us. “And drink something without alcohol.”

“You came to feed and hydrate me?” A thread of amusement ran beneath Xavier’s otherwise dubious tone.

“Like you’re a pesky pet I got stuck with. Here.” I shoved a bottle of water in his hand and a plate of homemade empanadas in his lap.

He hissed and quickly lifted the plate off his legs, only to drop it back just as fast. “Jesus, that’s hot.”

“Then you should eat them before they burn your favorite appendage,” I said innocently.

A hint of laughter pulled on his mouth, and he wiped at it with his hand before he picked up an empanada. “Doris’s specialty and my favorite. How did you know?”

“I didn’t. I saw you weren’t eating, so I asked if she’d make some food for you, and she produced those.”

With my admission came the tiniest tremor—a frisson of electricity that hummed between us and swallowed the lightheartedness in the air.

Xavier’s hint of laughter disappeared. Warmth rushed to the pit of my stomach, and I unconsciously shifted beneath his burning gaze.

“Thank you,” he said, a strange note in his voice. “That was… very thoughtful of you.”

I replied with a stiff smile, hoping he didn’t see the blood rising to the surface of my skin. It occurred to me that I might’ve been the only person who’d checked on Xavier’s well-being since he arrived—everyone else was too busy or didn’t care—and the realization sent a conflicting rush of emotions through me.

He was an adult. He didn’t need someone looking after him, but I felt gratified when he ate the empanadas and drank the water without complaint anyway.

“How many do you represent?” Xavier tilted his chin toward the screen, where a gallery of superstar athletes flashed in between clips. They represented the best and brightest of every major professional sports league in the Western Hemisphere: NFL. NBA. MLB. Premier League. La Liga. So on and so forth.